sounds of normalcy
by paradises
Summary: onyx fingernails clasp onto the feel of fire, so far yet so close, the yearning to burn everlasting. / winner of caesar's palace's monthly challenge.


******a/n: **This is for the monthly one-shot challenge at Caesar's Palace, wherein the prompt was "tracing infinity on their heart". Hope you like it, :)

**sounds of normalcy**

**.**

It begins with the rain.

In a way, there is a part of her that understands that there is no real normalcy after the Games, but in fact, if she really thinks about, there was never a normalcy, just the extraordinary, because those were the only ones that survived long enough, past the rebellions and the Games, the conquests and the wars, to tell their tales of horror and bloodshed, which the public grabbed up eagerly, as if it was the newest line of toys.

Her own toy's name was unknown as of yet, but Clove is positive that before the next week, it would be released.

To the minds of those who, as of yet, were not corrupted by the conniving ways of the Capitol, the _toys _were sort of mocking, mocking the families of the dead tributes, and mocking the mind of the victors who had slayed countless times, only to end up in a sanatorium before their lives had ended. That is the case for most, at least, and Clove, sitting in the back seat of the limousine, a sleek vehicle that if sold, could feed an outlying district's family for a lifetime, soon realizes, stopping at a house.

The Victor's Village is near the middle of the town, so that every day, to go to nearly any destination, people have to look at it and remember that it is not them that is in control of their own fates, but those Elders, they call themselves, who will control their lives. The car pulls to a stop (but this never stops, not really), because Clove knows that somebody's always watching as she carefully makes her way out the door, feeling naked without the security of the knives hidden in her leather boots or the gun concealed up her right sleeve. She walks; it's more of a hobble; into the room, onyx fingernails clasped onto the feel of fire as she embraces a sense of warmth.

The feeling is not one of home, though; she does not have a home, anymore.

Her fingers are twirling into fangs, bored for the prey, because that is when they feed, when there is nothing else to do, nothing for their vacant stares and empty minds to feed upon —it is a simple misunderstanding of hunger. "Some people say," Clove begins, clasping her hands as she stands upon a chair. "—that there's a theory that if children are not loved, not held when they are young, they can be capable of murder by the time they become adults."

A boy is standing near the top of the staircase, and suddenly, burnt fingernails and fiery dragons are all left aside as her world comes crashing down; she _remembers. _This is not her home; this is not been her home for infinity, but the days pass by and she loses count of everything, who she's become into, this lunatic who spends the majority of her life counting the feathers that float through the empty windows, grazing cheeks of ice though they will not melt, only switch into a fire, blazing majestic.

"Clove," his voice is hoarse, but he frantically wipes away the tears falling out of his eyes because it's just something that's in his eye, but she is in his eye, she is plaguing him. He laughs, though, because laughing is how they forget the pain, to let it subside, "What are you doing _here_?" Clove only examines Cato's bloodshot red eyes, and the state of his neatly ironed shirt, knowing perfectly well how much has changed by the grade of the cotton —a gift that his foster parents would rather buy for themselves, though the size would not fit them, rather than their very own orphan. "Get out of my house."

She leaves before he can say another word, because it wouldn't look nice for her to leave marred.

**.**

**.**

**.**

He sees her in another three years, at the airport —technically, he was not meant to be there but snuck in with the rest of his friends, who are splayed out across the various waiting chairs in the district's luxurious lobby, various degrees of emotions across their drooling faces, because after all, it is past three in the morning, and she probably couldn't care twice if he showed up, but he had to.

Cato's breath catches; she falls out of the airplane, holding onto a walking stick as she's escorted out, a pair of tawdry sunglasses practically covering the greater part of her darkened face. "What happened, man?" he mutters, casually whacking one of his idiot friends on the face with a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

"You're not supposed to care," Marvel simply replies.

He looks down at the floor, grimly staring at his vague reflection through the clearness of it all, wondering if that was the reason why the floors were so polished; so that the victors of various arena competitions could see themselves for who they really were: monsters. And, everybody knows that monsters don't feel. Then again, ask the miracles about that. "I don't care," he replies gruffly, skidding his leather shoe across the floor, receiving a firm stare and a sly giggle from a barista.

Marvel frowns. "Then, why do you have her favorite book?" Cato does not have an explanation, and before they leave the airport, he whacks Marvel across the face with the book again, because he has lost interest in knowing that saying the truth is not a felony, but in his world, everything and nothing is a felony, so he throws the book into the recycling bin. _Someone might as well have it._

**.**

**.**

**.**

Clove is walking through the streets, sunglasses permanently settled upon her sharp nose when she falls upon a book, trips on it, really, and the guide dog doesn't catch her because after all, nobody has been there for her, so why should they start now? She continues through the streets, occasionally tripping people for the fun of it with her large, pointy stick and remembers him for a change; that if _he _was here, they would make jokes together and maybe even make a game of it: _Who could trip the most people within sixty seconds?_

Through the sunshine, she smiles, kneeling down as she picks up the book, feeling the coffee-stained pages and returns to her apartment, buzzed in by a less than friendly neighbour who she was not ever had still stayed. Clove has not lost track of time since she had returned back to this district, and switches on the lights, sighing with disappointment when she realizes that nobody has broken into her apartment and will not slowly approach her with a knife, to finally end her life.

In a way, she misses the Hunger Games, as sick as that may seem. "Cato, I know you're in here," she says, all the same, setting down an umbrella that there was no need for, but there was rain today, lots of it; the people were screaming as if the world was going to end, but Clove decides that she would _love_ the apocalypse to come a few decades early. It would be a privilege to see the world end, to burn with it as it regenerated. Or, died. Either way worked just fine.

"I love you," a voice admits; she knows that it is Cato's. Clove cannot see anymore, but she can still see everything. Voices have turned into colours, and though it is all a blur, her life is now clearer than ever. They are the two who have made their mark upon the world, the world that is waiting for them, because nobody will remember them in a few years, but they'll always be known as the ones who did everything together —even dying. He says these words, she repeats them, and they plunge into darkness; minutes later, the smell of rusting iron has subsided, replaced by air freshener.

Outside, the rain starts falling, first droplets of tears of anguish, erasing everything to start anew.

And, it ends with rain.


End file.
